The Last Killiney

by J. Jay Kamp

  * * *

  Months of endless sea followed that first day on board Discovery. Whether it was Tenerife in the Canary Islands or the vastness of the sky over the wide Atlantic, the days passed in a blind succession of toiling and boredom, of sweat and slaving and then sitting around for hours on end, waiting for the wind to fill their sails.

  Nothing much happened among the officers or crew in those first few weeks. Nothing much happened for Ravenna, either.

  Paul was put to work with the other sailors. Viscount or not, it didn’t matter—he was still a seaman in Vancouver’s eyes, and soon he was reefing, dousing and furling sails, bending to the capstan bars in helping to weigh and cat the anchor, even swaying down the topgallant mast for repairs.

  Ravenna had no idea what any of this meant. Outboard motors she understood, but sailing ships were a different story. She only knew that when night finally came, when Paul climbed into his hammock and passed out from the sheer exhaustion of straining at halliards and braces, it wasn’t Ravenna’s hammock he climbed into. Vancouver had set aside a small cabin for James and Paul to share, and it was there that Paul retreated when nighttime came.

  Thus she never saw him, save at mealtimes. Then, too, he was so worn from his duties that he scarcely made any sense when he spoke. April, May and June all passed that way, with hardly a conversation between them, only a brush of his hand when they sat down to table, or a wink in the lamplight, haggard and weak.

  In July, just as she was getting used to this life, the long hours of boredom, the pitching deck, the way Paul had become a full-fledged sailor and now spent all of his time in the rigging above decks, in July she saw the coast of South Africa for the first time. That was a big deal, so exciting were her days of floor scrubbing and galley cleaning. Thrilling, too, were the fresh provisions ferried aboard at Cape Town, but such were the limits of good times aboard Discovery. Mending sails, picking oakum for caulking, keeping a careful log of the ships’ progress along the African coast, these were Ravenna’s more normal pursuits. If she spent time with Paul, it was always on deck in full view of the sailors and Vancouver’s oddly puritanical eye.

  Before Ravenna knew it, it was September. Six months had passed. They skirted the tiny island of St. Paul, and sighting land at the southwestern tip of Australia toward the end of the month, she was reminded of James’s name for the place: New Holland, the English called it. The men went out to survey this coastline, as Captain Cook had left it uncharted, and for a month the progress of the two ships was slow. Several hundred miles of Australian beach had to be meticulously explored. Captain Cook had to be outdone.

  With the ships standing close inshore, at last Paul got a break from his duties. There wasn’t much for him to do while the boat crews were away, so after months of watching him work like a dog, Ravenna was finally allowed to spend time in his company.

  By day—if it rained—they huddled together under a scrap of canvas and just as he’d done at the opera, Paul whispered in her ear this gossip or that about those unlucky enough to wander by.

  “Now there’s Dillon,” he’d say, leaning close against her shoulder. “Dillon’s such a royal person. He fancies himself the best-hung lad on the ship, did you know that? The others were rowing with me in the sail room about it, but I think if he really believes as much, then why burst his bubble?”

  She always blushed when he said things like that. He never noticed. He’d turn his attention to some other unsuspecting sailor, and then Ravenna would glance down at Paul’s lap, at the folds of fabric bunched there, wondering, gauging, going mad with curiosity.

  When the weather was good, she was put to work on drawings of the coast while Paul told her these ship’s secrets. With his stories ranging from size to spitting to imaginary love affairs between Sarah and Corporal Simpson, Ravenna scolded Paul more than once for being silly.

  “Couldn’t we talk about us?” she asked. “I mean, we don’t have much time left to talk. Couldn’t we spend it learning more about each other?”

  Paul’s eyes became solemn. His hand rose and settled at the back of her neck, and as he gazed at her, biting his lip, she felt his thumb moving ever so slightly in a minute caress.

  “What would you like t’know?” Sober voice, soft as rose petals. Ravenna sat completely still beneath his touch and she couldn’t think of one single question to ask him.

  In those weeks they spent on the Australian coast, he played the piano for her every night, and to a lesser extent, for the crew. Vancouver had allowed the small instrument for the benefit of his sailors’ mental health, although it was Ravenna who gained the most from Paul’s playing. Conjuring the saddest melodies from the darkness of the great cabin, he’d play for her until Vancouver’s voice came softly from his bunk, “That’s enough now, my lord.” Some nights, before the captain’s order, Ravenna would fall asleep where she lay on the piano, reveling in the feeling of Chopin and Mendelssohn. Always, whatever talking was going on amongst the men fell silent as Paul began his concerts. Always, when Vancouver ordered sleep, the cry went up for more.

  Paul played without printed music and without a lamp, and in the blackness of the gently rocking cabin, Ravenna felt drunk when she slipped down off the top of the instrument and lowered herself to the bench beside him. He never kissed her. They didn’t once share a word of affection, but the two of them knew what they felt in that music. They shared it completely, and she found love enough in that and in the grip of his fingers as he handed her into her cabin and closed the door behind her.

  Soon these musical evenings ended. By late October a strong wind had come up, forcing the ships to be on their way. When they reached New Zealand, there was far too much work for Paul to even think of playing the piano. At Dusky Bay he made his contribution to the expedition in the form of a hunting trip accompanied by James, Master’s Mate Manby, and a lot of guns.

  Where she’d never worried about Paul before, now she was a wreck. They were away from the ship for three days, during which time the decks were alive with whispers about the fearsome reputation of the Maori, the native people of New Zealand.

  They’d once attacked a boat crew from one of Captain Cook’s ships, Mr. Dillon told Ravenna happily; two midshipmen and eight sailors had been eaten. Hearing this, she hardly slept until Paul and James came back safely. What if David’s book had been wrong? What if Paul were attacked by a Maori warrior rather than the predicted northwest coastal Indian? The fjordlike landscape of Dusky Bay was a forest set at a 45 degree angle, a thick tangle of trees that could hide a nation of such cannibals, and Ravenna was on tenterhooks imagining the possibilities until she saw James and Manby rowing toward the ship.

  Weighed down with geese and ducks, Paul climbed up the side and dropped his catch upon the deck. He shook hands with Mr. Puget in greeting. He assured the lieutenant they’d had no problems to speak of, that they’d met no warriors.

  While they discussed these things, Ravenna gazed at Paul with her heart near to bursting. His stocky frame seemed impossibly well made. As he spoke, his hands moved in eager, graceful bursts of illustration, enhancing the optimism in his voice. She didn’t care that his boots were caked in mud. His coat tails were all burs and bits of weed, he had the beginnings of a beard on his chin, but as he turned to assist James with his burden while he and Manby hauled themselves up, she thought Paul the most beautiful sight—her man, handsome and home from the wars.

  Manby began to give his report to Puget, and when the descriptions of flora and fauna commenced, Paul walked away. Rubbing his hands together, he approached Ravenna quietly. As he reached her side, he didn’t lift a finger to touch her. Instead, adoringly and rather swiftly, he kissed her on the mouth. “How’s m’girl?”

  Her lips buzzed with pleasure. Staring at his thoughtful eyes, blue and knowing and completely pacific, it seemed to Ravenna he both accepted and savored her inexperienced reaction.

  Nevertheless, she felt foolish. He went right on rubbing at what she now sa
w was pitch on his hands, as if daring her to remark upon what he’d done.

  So she gathered her wits and launched into telling him instead about Mr. Dillon’s frightening descriptions of the Maoris. She’d feared the worst, she said. She’d lain awake for the last two nights picturing Paul’s fingers as appetizers, his husky torso as the Maori main meal.

  Paul’s lips pursed into a smile. He glanced down at his waistline. “Usually, I’d be a mouthful, but right now…”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “You knew there were cannibals here, didn’t you? Paul, you could’ve been killed—”

  But before she could scold him further, she felt his other arm come around her back and, strong and unyielding as a steel rail, draw her up tight to his chest. He gazed down at her lips. He nuzzled his face up close to hers, and then he did the very thing she’d dreamed about: He covered her mouth with a slow and deliberate kiss.

  Instantly, she went quiet. A surge of adrenaline shot through her limbs as he pulled her closer, his fingers exploring the contours of her back, his hips rocking gently against her until, feeling the firmness of his body pressed to hers, she couldn’t help responding. Delirious, it was, breathing him in, swimming in the feel of him, and she could almost taste his tongue in her mouth when suddenly he froze against her.

  Without taking his face far from hers, he withdrew gently, cast a glance toward Puget and Manby. Only then did it occur to her that neither the lieutenant nor the mate were talking.

  Daring to look around the deck, she saw at least forty men, sailors and officers and red-coated marines, all of them stock still and watching the pair. When she caught his eye, James stifled a grin and looked away. Vancouver, now standing near the main hatch and obviously displeased, gave James a disapproving glance before calling Mr. Puget before him.

  Paul was quick to step back from her. He must have expected disciplinary action by the way Vancouver spoke heatedly with his lieutenant. Yet when Puget returned, he said nothing to Paul; he only rejoined Mr. Manby and, like the rest of the men in Vancouver’s sight, carried on with the business at hand.

  She glanced at Paul. Her heart thumped wildly with the thought of his desire. Did he mean to finally have her after all these months? Had he missed her that much?

  If he had, he chose not to demonstrate his feelings. When they reached the privacy of her room below decks, he did nothing so much as talk. About his adventures in wild, unexplored New Zealand he chattered on happily for nearly an hour, and closeted with him in that tiny space, she quickly sank into despair.

  That he’d kissed her, held her so close and intimate against his brawny chest, it meant more to her now than it ever had at St. Paul’s Cathedral, didn’t he understand that? She knew him now. After countless hours of his company, she’d become familiar with his every expression and endearing habit, the words he liked to use, the subjects that would make him argue or burst into laughter…and he talked to her about fjords?

  In front of the crew or not, he didn’t kiss her again.